It’s been the same since kindergarten. Enter bathroom. Approach urinal. Stare straight ahead. Sometimes you’ll hear an odd racehorse kind of shiver from a guy who really needed it. Sometimes you catch a guy staring at his phone. And sometimes he’s trying a peek. It’s enough indignities. But this time you spy a little card in front of you that reads, “Welcome to Urinary 2.0.”

Without knowing it, you have just stuck your dick in a machine that will also wash and dry your cock for you.

Let us picture this, fellas. You’re on a bachelor party weekend, afternoon at Dodgers’ stadium. Game is a washout. But there’s an Uber coming outside in 10 minutes to take you to dinner and there’s heavy traffic ahead. So now it’s you, the groom, his dad, some guys from high school. One of them is in sales or real estate or real estate sales. It’s his Uber. So you hit the head. You’ll probably see these same guys later at a strip club. Various dancers on their laps. They will then be hiding erections.

Did I mention the sensor knows how big your dick is (so it knows where to spray the water) and is rumored to have “cool water in the summer, warm in the winter?”

But now, yes, now you are staring at a wall while a sensor waits for the trickle of urine to stop flowing from each of you. Then a three-second spritz of soapy water. It has the viscosity of the liquid in those nice wetnaps you get at sushi places. Or your average Swiffer.

You are now standing next to your friend’s dad and your dicks are wet. There is another man to your right whom you’ve never met before. He is seconds away from sharing this experience.

I’d like to pause for a moment to remind you that we’ve all more than once had to help an older person use the automatic sensor on a paper towel dispenser before. Maybe even twice. You wonder if you will have to be an interpreter between another old man and the future of hygiene.

So now the guy to your right closes his eyes and a jet of dry air shoots straight for his penis. It lifts the damn thing in the air. His cock has become a wacky arm flailing tube man. He’s getting offers from dealerships.

Let’s pause now and talk about how the team—which thought of this product that currently has zero orders—have just sold the patent for €680,000 (about $765,300). The team consists of Spanish biochemist Eduard Gevorkyan, economist Ivan Giner and business coach Miguel Angel Levanteri.

Now, as the jet of air leaves the valves and heads to your cocks, ask yourself: Did you fellas collectively even make $800,000 last year? Or were you going to bachelor parties and standing there with your dick in your hand waiting for a urinal to make your day?

Did I mention the sensor knows how big your dick is (so it knows where to spray the water) and is rumored to have “cool water in the summer, warm in the winter?”

Let us also remember that no matter how cool your girlfriend is about these things she’s gonna ask, “How was the bachelor party?” And you will have to say something. Anything. And you now have the ability to say, “There was a dick bidet in the urinal!”

Now the jet blows in and your dicks begin to separate from your balls and flap about in the air. Your dicks don’t know when they’re coming back down. All flying in formation without any real plan. Like the guys skydiving in Point Break.

You read the fine print on the sign. Says they’re working on a female model. Something between a bidet and a carwash. You’ll tell her that when you get home.

Then the air jets shut off all at once. Your dicks return to earth in unison. Emergency lights come on. The stadium has lost power. But you still stand there for a second. Stunned. Your dicks still dripping from the unfinished job of the blower. It needed about 5 more seconds.

“Damn,” the dad smiles. “And I was so excited to be able to say that I finally went to a bachelor party where I could get a blow job.”

AND SCENE.